


elephant

by Liondragon (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableist Language, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Body Image, Bottom Steve Rogers, Caning, Cock & Ball Torture, Dubious Consent, Foot Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not Safe For Anybody, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Object Insertion, Objectification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Therapy, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Self-cest, Size Difference, Steve's Dark Nights of the Soul, Time Travel, Top Steve Rogers, Verbal Abuse, food insecurity, no safewords, there are softer steve/steve fics than this, unsafe bdsm practices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-08 12:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Liondragon
Summary: This was a whole new verse, chapter, and volume of self-loathing, and Steve did not care.The one where tiny Steve doms the everliving!#&%*out of Steve the Captain. Heavy.enjoy yourselves





	elephant

**Author's Note:**

> Skip notes.
> 
> Steve is not amused by the You, Only Stronger meme. Along with usual disclaimers (canon is not mine, not an endorsement of canon, unauthorized duplication and distribution prohibited), the tone is both profoundly unreliable and deeply derogatory. As in, you ever wonder what language to nix to avoid bigoted, prejudiced stereotyping? All this. And I'm not talking about the swear words. Period-typical language of all stripes. Holy shit if you have ableism and/or body image triggers, this is a minefield. And it'll feel OOC... only, given the circumstances? Well. Hmm. _Is it?_
> 
> Mild spoilers: Returning readers, hi! If you got through H., the fic we shall not name, you'll likely survive the grind, *but* the comfort is not separate from the hurt — they're emulsified. | Contains direct quotes from 1941's "Here Comes Mr. Jordan", directed by Alexander Hall, originated by Harry Segall, and adapted for Columbia Pictures by Sidney Buchman. No infringement intended. | It's Steve's worst year to date, and no matter how Cap tries to assuage it... he's *lived* the futility. | Lots of invisible OCs. Lots of visible irony. Since it's the same character, lots Ambiguously Left Unsaid, including opaque pronouns. | The ending does not conclude discretely, instead waterfalling directly into canon. Aka Plot, What Plot?
> 
> I advise a slow or even redoubled read, this is dense. Also—I seldom ask this—given the pairing and the locking and the scarce author, this will be Mr. Not Appearing On Your Feed. So if you're into it, I would *deeply* appreciate recs for this one, just don't neglect the trigger-warns on that sucker. Because we wouldn't want underaged readers to lock their adult selves in a room and [redacted] the [expletive][expletive] out of [euphemism] (??!!) But seriously: consent issues. Strap on your irony helmets, here we go. With love LD.  
>  P.S. One of my favorite titles. Of! All! Time! (I'm one of those fabled creatures who likes coming up with titles. I was a title-beta once.)

Steve had a second sense for shady figures skulking by a building entrance, so he made the guy in no time at all. And because he'd spent a childhood quarantined with the best Hugo Gernsback had on offer, it took him two shakes to suss out what he was looking at.

Couldn't be a long-lost cousin, or a clone, or a robot impostor. So what if he was shaped like a heavy looking to collect? Steve would know that hangdog air anywhere: the slumping curve on longshoreman shoulders, the turned-down line on bee-stung lips, even the way those sausage fingers worried at the canvas portfolio, shamefacedly making up for the brim of the hat he didn't have. He couldn't quite place the mug. That was on the dot, too; Steve had tried enough self-portraits to know the deception of the mirror reversal, that even the most beauteous of subjects couldn't be perfectly symmetrical. Steve had never finished a self-portrait to his liking.

It was the wallflower hunch that did it, because the man couldn't manage one, like the Roman column of a spine and the meaty torso he was hiding under the trenchcoat wouldn't _let_ him shrivel up like a dead fern, when Steve couldn't put his back to a brick wall without contorting, when here. Steve. Was. Standing at attention. Barely level with the ledge of his clavicle. Crooked and listing and by all living accounts, _useless_. Steve's eyes crossed as the wick of his curiosity combusted into fury. What right did this mammoth have to be _ashamed_? He had everything at his fingertips, he was living out a future that Steve wasn't guaranteed. Steve was no moron — he and Bucky had figured out the rules of time travel a long time ago.

Well, Bucky was in training camp in the wilds of Ohio. Steve was handling this on his own. Only ten seconds had passed when he said gruffly, "Come on, then," and stomped up the stairs to cover the guy's heavy tread.

All the more infuriating when his shadow followed silently, not missing a single squeaky step.

~

Big Steve was awfully happy to get an eyeful of his tiny, bare apartment, hardly two sticks of furniture in the whole joint.

"You're sleeping on the floor," Steve said.

"Thanks," said Big Steve with a blinding white smile.

Now that his shadow was peeled off of the wall, Steve got a better look at him. He looked even better up close. It cast a new and bitter dimension to the phrase _sizing him up_. Steve couldn't muster a laugh.

He kicked his own bag under the bed where this flatfoot wouldn't trip on it. Speaking of feet — those big boots were shined to a slick gloss. Steve couldn't afford a five minutes with a shoeshine boy, and only so many kinds of people had the means and temperament to maintain such well-made boots. People with fingers that didn't creak in the mornings. His curling toes crunched in the newsprint stuffed between them.

Big Steve latched the door, having found and stuck the loose hair flush to the jamb like always. Like he owned the place. Steve felt his hands ball up.

"You got a tail?"

Big Steve looked alarmed. "You see anybody?"

"I'm askin' _you_." Steve was no big-eyed jay.

"They're neutralized," Big Steve reported.

"No goons with ray guns breaking down my door?" At Big Steve's nod, he said, "The Hell are you doing here?"

As though he'd watch his language around _himself_.

"I followed a hostile into a time portal. They're taken care of, you don't have to worry."

The fact that Big Steve had settled into parade rest would've given it away by itself. Shoe polish was standard issue in a soldier's kit. Bucky had said so in one of his letters (both of them weary and homesick for each other), only half of it blacked out this time.

Steve dragged his gaze up. Pinned him in the eye. "No," he said slowly. "Why are you _here_?"

For a brief second, Big Steve looked sore about the condescending note. Then he shrank back. _Embarrassed_. "Me... I'm afraid it'll be three months before my ride shows up. November on the outside."

Didn't that just figure. Steve indicated the portfolio bag, fancier than anything he'd ever owned. "What's that?"

At first he thought Big Steve would politely decline, for reasons official and confidential. Then he flipped the bag around, and teased it open an inch like a burlesque girl's skirt. "You can peek at the back of it. The front's painted — that'll sort itself out. Go on," he coaxed. Steve leaned in to swipe a finger across what looked like the top of a huge silver dish. It was clearly the man's prized possession. Some trophy more important than any rare book or shined up medal. Like those gilt dishes awarded at country clubs. "Might be a good idea to keep it in mind," said Big Steve reverently. "Remember it when Stark asks you to pick."

Stark. That could only be Howard Stark, boy genius, millionaire industrialist. He was up to his earholes in war profiteering, selling to the Brits, though he told the newspapers he was staunchly committed to defense. That meant Big Steve was serving. Naturally. Even if the country stayed out of the war, he had a part to play. Was Stark wining and dining him at one of his posh mansions? Was he hobnobbing with royalty, plotting strategy on some grand estate? Did generals grovel after him? Give him the pick of the best gear?

Steve flicked a fingernail on the curving metal. It seemed to absorb the impact. If it had made a sound, Steve couldn't hear it.

"Stark, huh?" he managed.

Big Steve's grin was fading at the edges. "Yeah. Though now I'm not sure if he was passing it off as his own work. I got a feeling he nicked it from... another party. But she's a beaut. She'll serve you well." The gleaming metal was hidden from view, and all Steve could think was that it wasn't for him. It was too big for him to swing around.

"In the war," said Steve dully.

"It's a matter of time," Big Steve started to say, too comfortable in Steve's apartment whose address no one else yet knew, not even the Barneses — and too late the big ox realized that the look on Steve's face wasn't nerves.

The next thing he knew, Steve had handfuls of his collar and Big Steve was hauled down to his level, too shocked to pull away when Steve used his whole body to shake him like an overstuffed heavy bag. "Before you tell me all about your bright shining future!?" Steve snarled in his face. "Tell me all about how I get everything I want, pass it off as mine? I dunno if the memory leaked outta your ears, 'cause _I know how this works!_ You gonna flop here, sponge off my life, _bust up my timeline_ , then once you've hung me out to dry, you'll dust out in three months with **you the real one and _me the ringer_!** "

In the time it took to suck a lungful of breath, Steve was appalled at himself. He'd gone after bruisers before, and this one was Paul Bunyan next to them. He could knock Steve over with a pinky. No one could hear them at this hour, and all the windows were shut. Nobody checked on him with Bucky gone away. He'd be cold for ages before anyone discovered him in his corner room. 

Then he took in how this stupid bulldozer of a face was gaping like a fish. How the deep voice that belonged on a radio hour began to stammer. He didn't make a move to push Steve off. In a low, contrite voice, Big Steve said, "I, I, I'm no poacher. Honest. I got a list of, of fixed points, changes I'm to steer clear of." He gulped, tears springing up. "If anything's altered besides those, I... I won't remember it till I get back. It'll all sort itself out."

Steve wasn't finished. "You sure it's gonna work like that? You gonna bank our lives on that gas? What if you stop existing? You probably won't feel a thing. And I'll be stuck. Here! Wonderin' what the Hell I'm supposed to do different to survive to another Goddamn Fourth of July!"

And Big Steve still didn't hit him. Far from it. "I shouldn'ta said anything. I'll keep my head down. I swear on Mam's grave. I'll be no trouble. It'll turn out the way it's supposed to." From this vantage, his Adam's apple seemed to wobble, like it was choking him. His eyelashes were dotted with moisture. Steve had half-expected a funhouse mirror, but he wasn't sure he'd ever done this much cowering in all his life. Before.

"This is your home," he said to Steve. He seemed to want to say more. Only, his stupid face went on trailing after Steve, searching for who-knew-what.

Maybe Steve should've gone easy on him. He was a guest, and his— their Mam would box his ears to see him treating a visitor like this. Hadn't even hung up his coat, draped poorly over his bulk. He'd just gotten out of a mission. He was a soldier. Like their Pa.

He was going to leave. Just like Pa.

Steve released him. He didn't quite step out of arm's reach; the room was small, and Steve didn't feel like giving him the satisfaction of his wariness.

The big man was frozen on the spot.

Coolly he said: "Stash your stuff. I'll get the water boiling."

~

Big Steve knew where everything was in the cramped kitchen. He peeled the potatoes to spare Steve's gnarled hands. Saved the peels and the carrot tops for the morning broth.

There was one other chair in the room, where lived Steve's last canvas for the next two weeks. He didn't so much as nudge it. His large hands cradled the tin cup as he ate dinner sitting on the floor.

The kettle wasn't the only thing steaming.

~

For the rest of the evening, Big Steve took over Steve's daily chores. Since Steve had laid hands on him, he was painstakingly deferential. He asked if he could use the broom. He asked if he could refill the water pitcher. He didn't dare breathe on Steve's medicine chest. Steve felt strangely easy about it. Steve could put his feet up. Get out his book while it was still a little bright outside. Big Steve asked if he could put away the dry goods. It was a bit comical.

He asked if he could wash up in the tub. That was the main reason why Steve had sprung for this place. A swell soaker with thick sides, with room to rig up a tank so he only had to pump water a couple of times a week. He liked that tub. Therefore, Big Steve liked it too. He'd already put the kettle on, he was that eager.

Steve said yes.

He was about to remind him to keep the water hot enough to dissolve the bathing salts when Big Steve started to shuck off his garments.

He went fast, to conceal the exact nature of the clothing he'd been hiding under the trenchcoat, but the action only uncovered him faster. 

Steve's book snapped shut like a gunshot.

Big Steve nearly leaped over the tub, skidding precariously before grabbing its lip to stop himself. He ended up half-turned and leaned over like a studio model. Under Steve's disbelieving gaze, he slowly straightened up, halfway. His long fingers twitched for a towel, only to realize it belonged to Steve. Was he going to ask permission for that, too? 

Steve was floored. He'd suspected, he'd wondered, and here it was. Big Steve was the picture of _fitness_. What Mam had prayed for every night when she thought Steve was asleep. Whatever had happened hadn't just ballooned him up, it had— Steve was across the room before he knew it. The flaring nostrils blowing out deep gusts of air. The blood-rich complexion. The motion of the averted fall had been less clumsy slapstick and more balletic. Graceful. Steve would've taken the precious gift of _health_. He didn't need to be tall, or broad-shouldered, or have muscles out of an El Greco painting. This Steve — whoever he was — was as perfect as if he'd been popped out of a mold. It was _excessive_.

What galled Steve was how Big Steve cringed. There was no inch of meekness. He wasn't just ungrateful. He was ashamed to be seen.

What did he have to be ashamed of?

Steve halted a foot away. Big Steve was trapped between him and the tub. He looked like he wished it were full enough to drown himself. Alright, alright, Steve knew jealousy when it stung him in the face; he wiped along his temple and pinched his brow like he could stave off a headache. Maybe Big Steve was ashamed of showing it to him. Maybe it wasn't shame at all, but some time travel conundrum he couldn't reveal. Maybe he wasn't all the way human anymore, or he had robot parts, or he turned colors if he held his breath and blew on his thumb.

Then Steve realized how Big Steve had frozen in place. Steve had crowded him in at will. The reverse was true: he'd barely needed to throw an elbow before Big Steve was out of his way. He took a step in now. He could've been shoved back, easy. He could've gotten his block knocked off.

Or maybe, Steve contemplated, maybe Big Steve was waiting for permission.

Steve considered the question seriously. Big Steve waited patiently, subtly relaxed now that they were on the same page, despite the difficult pose.

"Alright," said Steve. "Let's have it."

Carefully Big Steve unfolded himself to his full height. It was a wonder he didn't hit the ceiling. "Go on," he invited. Like he was a traveling salesman showing off his wares.

Which in a way wasn't that far off-base. He was a lifesized poster of a circus he-man, almost too ridiculous to be real. He gave off heat like a chimney. Steve was fully clothed, Bucky's old slippers on his feet, and the acres of skin before him showed no signs of goosebumps.

Steve raised a brow at the penis, half-hard, cantilevered out at belly height; its foreskin was intact. Big Steve shrugged. His belly button hadn't changed, if it could be found amongst the lumps of muscle. Steve moved on. Sheesh, those balls were heavy. He'd leave off playing grab-ass for now, he wanted a turn at unsullied bathwater. He flattened his palms and traced the air over and around the planes of this body. The proportions would've given Da Vinci a fit. Michaelangelo would've crowed. Big Steve stood still, quietly anticipating what Steve wanted to do. It set Steve's teeth on edge. 

Big Steve kept still when he wrapped his hands around his waist. The skin had give to it, but the muscles underneath were hard — it was like silk on concrete. The chest barely moved, every inhalation efficient as a steam engine, yet the padding of muscle and pinked skin was so thick that it wobbled from breathing alone. Steve chopped a line across the sternum, scowling at the heart's rhythmic thump. Grime had gathered in the small of the back and along the dip of his pelvis. Sweat had pooled there from Big Steve's venture, perhaps channeled down by those future textiles. He laid a hand across Big Steve's midriff, navel to ribs. Without having to be asked, Big Steve tightened his abdominals. Under Steve's hands, they felt like massive rubber belts wrapped around steel factory rollers.

Big Steve did twitch when Steve's touch wandered near his buttocks. Steve smirked. Same sensitive spot. He paused to consider a look at his back, but it'd be more of the same. He wasn't sure he was ready to see his spine. 

"Profile," he said. Big Steve executed a neat left-face. He didn't say anything when Steve crouched nearly to the floor. His bony hand skimmed the outlines of the muscle groups, all deeply defined, illustration-ready. Absently he cataloged each one. Maybe he didn't fight at all; maybe they propped him up like a mannequin while the Army docs pointed out this ideal of anatomy. Good Lord, those weren't thighs, they were tree-trunks. He couldn't wrap two hands around them. Big Steve might not, either, even with those big mitts of his.

He stopped at the knee. Frowned. For all of Big Steve's supposed exertions, the skin over the kneecap was smooth.

For that matter, he hadn't spotted a single scar. His eyes roved back for another pass. He wasn't sure he wanted to confront how unnatural that was. This really was him, wasn't it? It had to be. Nah, he was right the first time, he was just rattled. The scenario called for an ejaculation right out of the pulps. Uncanny! Weird! Mind-boggling!

That was a bridge too far. Steve was getting mad at himself, for being thrown off enough to treat this guy like a freak.

As though reading his mind, Big Steve spoke up. "You gonna check my teeth, too?"

Steve shook himself. Right, that wryness was more like it. Down to his self-directed irritation at mouthing off when he'd meant to be polite. He stood. Rounded the corner that was Big Steve's bulk, and stopped beside the tub. "Yeah, let's see 'em."

Big Steve stooped down. Steve was caught off-guard by his bottom lip, of all things, plump and glistening. Here was a naked, giant copy of himself opening his mouth so Steve could look inside. Steve didn't even have to tiptoe. He grasped that square jaw, turning him this way and that. Didn't need a tongue depressor either, wasn't that nice of him. No bad breath. Big Steve's eyes were steady on him as he tipped him down to examine his brow ridges. He didn't close his mouth.

Steve angled him so his tonsils caught the light, and he peered in. Rows and rows of perfect choppers. Steve could spit. He'd punch them if that wouldn't break his hand instead of the teeth.

Then he squinted, and gave the jaw another shake before he was sure. "You got them back!" he burst out.

The wisdom teeth he'd gotten yanked, through considerable pain and suffering, were back in Big Steve's head. 'That explained the hooded prick,' came the wild thought.

He glanced up, expected an answer, only to realize they were nose-to-nose, and he hadn't given him his jaw back. Deliberately, he shut Big Steve's trap, and jammed his chin with the heel of his hand till the man was upright again.

Only then did Big Steve answer. "They popped out. When this..." he trailed off.

"You don't have to keep pulling them?"

"There's space for them," said Big Steve. Room for four more teeth in that big dumb jaw. Then his gaze slid away again. He was flustered. He was _trying to be polite_. Except he knew how Steve felt about pity. And Steve was gut-sure that whatever this guy thought, he didn't find him pitiful. He'd availed of Steve's hospitality (for whatever it was worth), and he felt bad about imposing, and he couldn't say any of that out loud, and he didn't know _what_ to say to Steve—

And the whole thing sent prickles down Steve's crooked back.

Beyond the windowshades, Ramona's radio crackled to life by the third-floor fire escape.

Steve reached over and turned the tap. Water drummed into the tub. He returned to his side. Big Steve probably had clarion-clear hearing on that side. Steve glanced at the fully hard cock jutting out from neatly trimmed cliff-face of muscles. He glanced up. Big Steve was trying not to side-eye him. Fascinated, he watched a bead of sweat form along that golden hairline, observed its travel down the hinge of that chiseled jaw.

Disgust was not what Steve was feeling. He knew, intimately, what was racing through Big Steve's mind, what idle fantasies were boiling underneath. He hadn't the chance to try it much, only a few stalled attempts, because there were plenty of things he'd risk his neck for and scratching that itch wasn't one of them. His body wouldn't knit back together if he placed a foot wrong, with the wrong partner. His wouldn't regrow teeth. His still contained every single scar he'd ever earned. He was angry about it. Big Steve knew he was angry about it. And _there were goosebumps sprouting on his perfect skin._

So maybe Steve's voice _sounded_ thick with disgust when he said: "Do not get the water dirty." He picked up a thin towel and tossed it over Big Steve's crotch.

And Big Steve flushed, head to toe, and nearly ducked his head before stopping himself. One flawless foot at a time, he got into the filling tub. Was he observing again, Steve wondered, would this defy some religious edict? Surely it couldn't be self-abuse if he wasn't the same person. He pinched the edge of the cloth; it looked like a tea towel on him. The erection didn't abate when Steve added steaming water from the kettle. Big Steve's eyes darting to follow Steve, his thick brows beetling, his jaw tightening as conditions worsened for him. He signaled when the temperature was good. He waited for Steve to return to his book before wrapping his usual hand around his swollen shaft and rubbing one out into the towel.

Steve deliberately turned his deaf ear to the show. Big Steve was biting back his noises anyhow. Through the walls, the rise and fall of arguments; through the windows, genial patter on the radio. Yet the slap-slap of flesh on flesh began to enter the threshold of his perception. That had to be loud. Was this snuffbox of a place getting him hot? Standing in his bachelor's bathtub, steam escaping to condense on his calves, working himself over hard enough to bruise? If he bruised. There was the little huff when he got close: sounded more appealing without the wheeze. Then he spilled into the towel, soundless and dappled with sweat and hips twitching forward, and that most intimate of motions was how Steve lost all doubts that he was one—years removed—and the same.

Not a drop made it into the bathwater. He didn't sink into it until he'd folded up the towel he'd dirtied up. Folded up his secret clothes, too, with one swipe of his long arm. Hung up the used towel on the rim of the tub, like he was presenting it for Steve's inspection. It was a fine towel. A little scratchy, as he liked. A Greek key embroidered along the border. He wondered if his older version remembered that towel, already skimpy on him, had been a gift from a dark haired johnny at the baths. He wasn't sure how to feel if they'd managed to burn that memory out.

The water was warm when it was his turn to soak.

~

It was long after Bing's last crooned good-night. No one was home upstairs to put a record on.

The mattress dipped. It was a wonder the whole bed didn't bow. Steve ground his teeth. He hadn't asked, hadn't said a word, but his shivering had become too much for Big Steve, who'd broken out of his makeshift bedroll on the floor.

Turned out the garment — be honest, Rogers, _the uniform_ — was actually top secret. It had looked thin in its bundle, yet when Big Steve piled it on top of Steve's blankets, it trapped the heat like a mountaineer's tent. Big Steve had brought an undershirt, though it was unclear if he was wearing pants; he'd waited until nightfall to crawl into Steve's bed. Nothing untoward. This way Steve had no chance to get a look at the future artifact. Even the textile clearly didn't belong here, feeling like leather and smelling like lightning storms.

To top the whole sandwich, Big Steve plastered himself to Steve's back.

"Heavy," Steve complained.

"It's warmer," said Big Steve, stating the obvious. 

Steve was not going to bristle. He contemplated Big Steve. This close, the difference in mass was palpably real. His lungs were a pair of bellows. With darkness washing out the background to nothing, Steve could picture it all in his mind's eye.

"Get under the covers, Heavy," said Steve. When he hesitated, Steve jabbed an elbow back. Might've hit his nose. "You stupid? This bed's for one, regular-sized fella. If you're really going to play furnace—"

"All right, all right," said Heavy. _There_ was the petulant lip. Steve had wondered. Heavy eeled in fast, and crept over Steve slow. "This good?"

It was like being enveloped by a warm wall. On their sides like this, the shoulders alone towered over Steve's huddled shape. Heavy's hips were flush with Steve's thighs, which was ridiculous. He wasn't wearing pants. That wasn't surprising, nor was the absence of an apology. The fancy uniform probably rendered drawers superfluous. Steve wriggled and tossed, just to be difficult, trying not to feel like a worm. _Caterpillar_ , his didactic mind corrected.

That didn't feel much better.

After several minutes in the dark, Steve settled. Heavy had remained still for the entire duration. "You know when I get too hot. Back on the floor when time's up." As far as Steve could tell, the old tablecloth that was Heavy's bedding was still bunched on the floorboards.

"Got it," said Heavy.

They lay in the dark, listening to the city's nighttime sounds. Their breathing was annoyingly out of sync.

Heavy really hadn't worn any pants. He was perking again.

If Steve had been in his youth, this would've caused no small amount of consternation. And probably hysterics. But Heavy Steve was the same person as him. Moreover, he was fairly sure his inclinations in the bedroom hadn't been outgrown or abandoned. Not that beds had been involved, lately. Steve cozied up to the body of his dreams, and considered the practicalities involved. Better circulation, probably much better nutrition, and whatever else had been tossed into the vat: of course Heavy was more sensitive. Hell, maybe he needed special pants that didn't exist yet. Which brought them to the mental aspect.

Christ. Heavy was poking his leg. Now he knew where his brains had gone, Steve thought uncharitably.

Refusing to be distracted, Steve considered what he'd observed. The new physique hadn't meant turning over a new leaf. Watching Heavy in the throes had been like watching a pantomime of his own performance. The weird play of Steve's urges on a distorted face. Heavy was certainly big enough to handle him, but he had a feeling he wouldn't _want_ to bend Steve over his knee and put those swatters to work. 

Steve wasn't sure he wanted it either. He'd grown wary. This wasn't the kind of proclivity he could indulge in snatched moments in a dark alley. He — they both knew full well that his usual joints had been raided, or had tightened rules on their patrons, or had outright shut their doors. And even then, he couldn't afford to be that stupid, not with a constitution this fragile. Neither could Heavy, he realized. Never had a bull hoofed it so carefully in a china shop. Heavy was _too_ strong in this obscenity of a body. Even though he looked like the kind of guy Steve would want to push him around... the reality held little appeal, for all parties.

His future self would do anything to keep him from breaking. No way around that logic. What's more, Heavy knew better than anyone that he was no pushover. So he wasn't pushing. That, _that_ was what tied Steve in knots. It burnt on him on both ends, that he might one day wake up to an existence that was better than dreams, and look back at himself with a gaze heavy with... with...

"Hold it in," Steve said. His voice was harsh in the dark. "You won't touch, tonight."

The shudder that rippled through the man at his back was edifyingly familiar.

Steve burned with envy.

Heavy said, "What to do you want me to call you?" He was breathing fast, though his voice was tinged with amusement. His accent had kicked in, too, the sentence rumbled in three syllables.

"You won't call me anything, you mook," Steve grumbled. They weren't 'Master' kind of people. Person. 'Sir' was... he wasn't a knight, he wasn't a big shot. _He wasn't an officer._

Heavy subsided, seemingly figuring it out at the same time. Well, at least nothing had happened to his brains. "It's the least I could do," he said more quietly.

To pay his dues.

Shit. Room and board. Practicalities. Steve hoped he wouldn't develop a headache. He needed to get some shuteye. They had to deal with that in the morning. He was weary of the constant barrage of necessities, and damn Heavy Steve for thinking along the same lines. What did he have to worry about?

Probably plenty. Steve still didn't feel much inclined to be charitable.

He sneaked his hand over and behind him, and flattened his palm against Heavy's bare erection.

Heavy hissed like a boiling pot. He felt like one, too, growing impossibly hotter, his massive shoulders shifting under Steve's blankets and his reinforced uniform. Steve gave himself three seconds to explore — despite the sleeve, it felt the same, only bigger — before holding steady. It was blazingly warm to the touch. In the dark he could imagine picking up a tin can gone hot under the sun. A little damp. That set off his first flash of shame, which dissipated just as quickly. The rest of the evening Heavy would press against Steve's longjohns and feel like perverted scum and even if he did rub on him, the fabric would probably be too rough for his tender skin. Didn't matter. He'd hold it in. He wouldn't come.

Steve felt his worries begin to fall away. The lot could wait for tomorrow. He withdrew, settled in again, this time gradually, giving Heavy a chance to adjust to the pressure on his cock.

It was satisfying to feel Heavy laboring through his breaths.

Drowsily Steve wondered what else he'd beg for.

Then as an afterthought, Heavy said, slightly slurred, "You wanna?" In one single syllable. 

Steve didn't see the harm in it. He turned his head, and before he could crane around and strain his neck, Heavy Steve practically levitated over to smack a kiss on his mouth.

Steve couldn't see in the dark. He got an impression of lips that were actually plumper than his. When they parted, Steve still couldn't see, but he sensed that Heavy wrinkled his nose when he did.

"Weird," said Heavy.

"Yeah," Steve agreed. They weren't doing that again. He'd only made out with a mirror the one time, after making fun of Bucky practically lapping at his reflection like a dog.

Heavy effortlessly slid back into place, no heat lost, no extra jostling.

"Good night," they said.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Shot this off first even though I believed this one wouldn't be written for a long while. Like, a year's time. Then I got paranoid that someone else would make the cake (aka my entire fandom career). So I poked it, it poked back with a raging vengeance. Steve was REALLY ANGRY, okay! I don't always do self-flagellating Steve, alright, he is the tiniest percentage of the iceberg, it is just _compellingly easy to write_ , my buds you feel me, I do not claim to specialize in— hfs he's angry don't leave me alone with him.  
>  ~~I'll do y'all the courtesy of guesstimating two-chapter batches. Maybe. It does leave time to look up or experience references.~~ ETA: I apologize profusely. A technical problem arose with the next chapters that I couldn't handwave, so we've retreated to the secret mudflats for now. Thank you for your patience. 
> 
> Rejected tags: also, this one's for all of you mocking steve for not getting the 21st century, Steve Rogers in the 20th Century, author says good luck with those memes, author says come on now there are context clues, we're living just as far forward of the 1970s as steve and bucky were living back from them, shut your filthy mouth!, i attacked myself, All the Times Steve Rogers Didn't Get Happy Endings, And The Fifty Times Steve Rubbed One Out For Himself  
> Would you believe this is tiny Dom Steve *watered down*? In the original notes, he travels to the 21st century... producing such classics of the cutting room floor as «looong prep - "If I disappear, you'll be stark naked, ass over teakettle."» and «Sam walks in. checks on b. Steve, squeezes hand. "Did I say you could stop? Steve Rogers. 1937. Sorry we can't be properly acquainted. Time travel rules. How good of a pal are you? If I could put you on the spot. [...] come on him?"» and the unlikely «piping hot bowl of soup on belly» because neither Steve would waste food in 1941.  
> Last but not least, this is dedicated to barely pubescent me, who once recorded a Very Somber Directive not to date myself because we would kill each other. I remain unattracted to my doppelgängers.


End file.
